Finding Mrs. Claus

Santa

This year I am going to find my Mrs. Claus!

I look at myself in the mirror, when an irritated ‘Hrmpfff’ prompts me to say goodbye to the image of the man I like.

“Get this on you!” Trini (an insufferable house elf and friend) is waving an unshapely Santa attire in front of my face.

I blow up my cheeks and will my waist to expand until my washboard abs and trim hips resemble a pot belly and a wobbly backside to meet the expected stereotype.

“Whoever created the image of Santa Claus being a fat, old man with apple cheeks and a beard?”

“Are you asking me?” Trini thrusts the red costume in my direction. “Cover up! You look pitiful.”

“Thanks,” I hiss between clenched teeth as I step into the dreaded costume.

Then, I start with my rounds, disputing with myself whether to ditch the popular image of Santa or play it safe.

I had a few mishaps in the past. People tolerate a fat, jolly man clattering down their chimney. But if they find a hunk in the same outfit pottering around in their front room, they freak out and call the police. Prejudice and all… The world just isn’t prepared to ditch their preconceptions quite yet.

I click my tongue, urging Stormwind and Midnight to trot on. My fiery stallions, now disguised as red-nosed rein deers, hate this annual palaver as much as I do. And HOHOHO, off we goooo! There is this woman I spotted a few days ago, and I can’t get her out of my mind. I followed her, and because her house is not on my list, I know she has no kids. She won’t be expecting me. Still, I can’t resist getting a closer look. Leave her a little something perhaps. Maybe sneak into her bedroom and have a good gander.

“Unethical!”′ I chide my baser self.

“Creepy!” Stormwind and Midnight snort in unison.

I sigh and reconsider. I do uphold some standards. And there might be a small print in my contract that says I can’t sneak up on unsuspecting clients.

But as they say: ‘All is fair in love and war.’

Not that I have a massive expertise in either field. I don’t work in war zones. And I don’t do women. Not because I don’t want to, but ‘sex with Santa’ (aka mature unshapely men wearing funny costumes) is a niche kink (and not one I wish to get involved in!).

Damn! If I could only banish those luscious lips and flowing chestnut hair from my overheated mind.

Luckily, my equine-cum-cervine team knows their way around the area to collect the many carrots people leave, together with milk and cookies for me. It’s the reindeers’ silver lining. Not mine. I sigh and pat my belly. I like milk and cookies – don’t get me wrong! But everything in moderation! Stormwind and Midnight obligingly help out with cookies (but milk is a ‘no thanks’ for them). We usually leave it for the neighborhood cats.

As I munch my way through the umpteenth plate of biscuits, crumbs catching in my facial hair, I contemplate how to introduce myself to the fine lady who piqued my interest.

Shall I knock on her door and introduce myself? “Hello, I’m Santa. Nice to meet you.” Cringeworthy and creepy as fuck.

Shimmy down her chimney and “HoHoHo!“? Even worse! She’ll probably need lifelong therapy after that.

I must go on a reconnaissance mission to start with. Park my team in her garden and peek through her window. Figure out my next step. It’s creepy, too. But at least I won’t have to confront her.

Upon closer examination of my emotional landscape, I find myself lacking in the chutzpah department. I’m not a natural when it comes to socializing. And my less-than-sexy Santa bod doesn’t help. Well, there’s not much I can do about that. Not on Christmas Eve when I’m busy delivering presents.

Tomorrow (when I can ditch my Santa attire for another year) I will casually bump into her and see if she might want to go for a hot drink. A standard, no-fuss scenario. Yes!

Resolve made, I pick up the reins and click my tongue.

Rudolph burps and Rupert farts as my team pulls to get the sleigh in motion.

And off we go! High. Higher! I whoop! It is an exhilarating ride across the clear night sky, city lights sparkling below. Or serene fields bathing in the light of the full moon. The night is filled with magic and anticipation (and a lot of uneasy feelings on my side).

Lola

I hate the festive season!

Correction. I love the festive season. But I hate being alone through the time of the year that screams ‘Home and Family!’.

I scowl at the framed picture of a lovingly decorated Christmas tree, the ornaments I hung up religiously every year, and the nativity of papier mache I made in fourth grade. It’s impossible to tell Joseph and the donkey apart, but I crafted it with lots of love and zest. Perhaps it’s time to stop that Christmas-magic crap and get real. Perhaps, not displaying this blasted picture that somehow made it will help to dispel the emptiness that envelops me each time I drag out the few memorabilia in the run-up to Christmas. Maybe I need to concentrate on the festive (as in feast) side of the holiday, like most of my peers. Taking the opportunity to go out after work for drinks and dance the night away in silly elven costumes that show more flesh than sense for the biting cold December nights.

But anyway, this year, I am committed to doing what I did for the last eight years: sit alone through a sad microwave turkey dinner (no point in cooking a whole bird just for myself) and down a glass of red wine with it. Or two… or three. Who cares if I wake up with a hangover on Boxing Day?

I usually end up opening a second bottle, begging the blissful forgetness to descend onto me like a blanket. Most of the time, I don’t make it to bed and pass out on the settee.

The turkey is chewy, like every year, and I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to buy a premium meal instead of Walmart’s Value range.

The answer is simple: I don’t deserve it. I do, however, deserve shameful guilt and bottomless longing. There is no redemption for what I did. A veil of tears clouds my vision, and I wipe the hot embarrassment away with an angry swipe of my hand. Wallowing in self-pity is not exactly what I had in mind. I will – however – follow my morose Christmas routine, get blinding drunk, pass out on my settee, and wake up with a mighty hangover. And then I will… I swallow against the acid bile creeping up my esophagus. “I can do it!” An angry nod underscores my outburst. “I can do it!” More head bobbing, and I know my face is a mask of fierce determination. The tell is in the hard set of my mouth and my narrowed eyes. “ I can do this!”

With those words, I get back to the task and methodically finish my first bottle of wine.

Santa

My annual rounds are over. Hurray! Two minutes before midnight! I am usually on the tardy side, but tonight is different. My knees are a shaky mess as I disembark the sleigh that’s now parked in a dark corner at the back of her urban high-rise. I bend my neck back, taking in the bleak facade with windows that remind me of tortured eyes, devoid of hope. Don’t think I’ve been here before. I swallow against an inexplicable lump in my throat. “Sappy sod,” I whisper-tsk to myself. I can’t see a chimney, but I am sure there will be a vent system of some sort on the roof that’s undoubtedly grimy with pigeon shit and other urban delights. I scrunch up my nose, pull my big Santa pants up, and… On second thought, I quick-look around, making sure I’m not on one of the many disused CCTVs, and twirl. Like Cinderella at midnight, I transform. Not into a pumpkin. I breathe a sigh of relief. Man! It feels good to be me again.

Lola

Could have sworn I heard a noise. Like the faint jingle of the glass bell Dad used to allow us into the room ‘after Santa has been to deliver your presents.’ The memory warms my belly just long enough to bemoan the loss of it when the band of its more nasty brethren waltzes into my consciousness. It’s been a long time since Dad lifted that delicate bell and made it sing of wonders and hope.

I crank open my left eyelid, aware of the sour taste in my mouth (cheap red wine does that to you) and the drool that’s seeped into my pillow whilst I was passed out. Or perhaps the wetness is from the tears I don’t dare to cry when awake. I don’t know. More importantly: I don’t care. I squint at my watch. 3:21, I shudder. My bladder tells me in no unclear terms to ‘get up and pee!’. And since I don’t want to add bedwetting to the long list of my failings, I flip the threadbare quilt (Mom made it a lifetime ago) back and slink off the settee. My back protests, but I shush it. There is no way I will sleep in my bed tonight! Not tonight… To be fair, I don’t often sleep in my bed. The settee is comfy enough (or not, according to my back. But what does my rubber spine know?). I grope my way from the tiny living room into an even tinier bathroom and plunk onto my loo. The lid has been missing ever since… I groan. ‘Not now!’ I beg the flashbacks to spare me the vivid imagery that marches in their wake. Too late! I think I need to puke! I scramble off the loo and turn around just in time to evacuate the rancid content of my soured stomach. I purge and purge and purge. Until the nightmares evacuate and leave my mind heavy with denial.

I crawl back onto my sofa of pain and pull the quilt up and over my face, drowning out the merry jingles still tolling inside my head like the bells of Nôtre Dame at noon. A hallucination. A ghost. The worst day of my life making an uninvited comeback.

Santa (Nicholas)

I quietly wriggle down the disused air vent (handsome man now. No more pudgy Santa) and tiptoe into her front room. My heart skips a beat. There! Curled up on a tattered settee, her shapely curves barely concealed by the quilt draped tightly over her voluptuous form.

I salivate. And swallow. ‘Back off, Nicholas!’ I pace myself. Nothing is more off-putting than waking up and facing a stranger drooling over you. Been there. Done that. Not a story I care to revisit. I bring my focus back to the sexy woman, who is still fast asleep. I long to trace my thumb across her plump bottom lip; follow its trail with my tongue. Her eyelids flutter. Is she waking? I prepare to clamber up the air vent and pretend I’m a fat, old man who brought presents. Presents! I fumble for the velvet box I carried in my pocket ever since I saw her cross the road. I know it’s neither the right time nor the right place to gift her with… I squeeze my eyes shut and leg it out of the room that smells of her and stale wine. My eyes catch on a half-eaten congealing microwave dinner that she didn’t even bother to put on a plate. My heart aches for the sad display of loneliness. My head tells me to stop the pity trip and see her for what she is: a sloven drunk. Heart and Head get into a mighty argument that stops me in my tracks.

Heart: “When, if not at Christmas, is a person allowed to drink?”

Head: “You don’t know how often she drinks. She could be slaughtered every day. Take a look around!”

I do. And what I see scores one for Head. The place is a hovel. Magazines and jumpers are carelessly dropped onto furniture, and the dust settling around them suggests they haven’t been moved in a while.

Heart: “She might have been ill. It is the time of year when bugs are rife. She might just have had a sad spell. Being alone for Christmas and all…”

I avert my gaze from the signs of quiet dejection. I have always been one to follow my heart. Not that it did me much good. But hey, I am who I am.

Lola

In my dream, my father opens the door to our spacious living room. He smiles as if he’d delivered the presents himself. But I know it was Santa who popped round and dropped them off. I know, because the cookies, milk, and carrots are gone from our back lawn.

The first thing my eyes find when I step into the room is the massive tree that’s decorated with the ornaments my mom got from her mom and she got from her mom. I love the sparkle and shine. And there are gingerbread stars and wrapped chocolates hung in between the baubles and angels. Once, I had my fill of the tree, my eyes wander to the floor, where piles of luxuriously wrapped presents wait for our attention. I squeal with delight.

“Candles first,” my Dad insists, and he ceremoniously lights a beeswax candle with a long match. He carefully carries it to the tree and deferentially lights the ten or so candles on it. We ‘Ah!’ and ‘Oh!’ and then we sing ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Silent Night’ before Dad extinguishes the candles and we devote our full attention to the presents. Mom picks them up one by one and reads the card that comes with it. “This one is for you, my dear,” she says and hands my dad a soft parcel wrapped in black and gold striped paper. He thanks her and takes the gift from her hands. Mom and I watch as he unwraps the present painstakingly slowly. “Hurry up!” I shout because I can’t wait to get my presents. It’s the same every year: Dad gets his present first. Then, it’ll be my turn.

That year, Santa brought me riding lessons at the local stable. ‘Pony Club’ it said on the rainbow-coloured voucher that sported a smiling unicorn.

I never got to retrieve the voucher. My dream of happy days long gone fades into waking, and I am glad it does because I couldn’t cope with its brutal ending. I toss and turn, trying desperately to get comfortable again. But the cold harsh reality of my front room seeps underneath my quilt and ices me to the bones. I don’t know how the quilt survived. Or I, for that matter.

I push the terrors of my horrific past away. Shove them into the dungeons of my conscious mind, where they will stay incarcerated for the duration of my waking day. Later, I will keep them locked in with the help of copious amounts of wine and spirits. Drowning out the past works for me!